


The Shape of Things to Come

by spacemonkey



Category: U2 (Band)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-10-25
Packaged: 2021-01-03 01:22:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,813
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21171092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spacemonkey/pseuds/spacemonkey
Summary: While left to his own devices, Edge finds himself reflecting on happenings in life, some that he's glad to remember; others he wishes he could forget. Set during summer, 2019.





	The Shape of Things to Come

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, I'm happy to report that I am not dead! Furthermore, I have finished my degree, which in turn almost finished my laptop. So while I aimed to have completed this fic a couple of weeks ago, laptop kept freaking out on me. But here we are, A FIC. FROM ME. Happy days! I started writing this at the beginning of July, only to be interrupted by uni so it's been a long process this one, and it gets pretty heavy but I'm not sorry. Also, somehow this is my 60th posted U2 fic, and I don't know how that happened, but here we are. Title inspired by a song from the Battlestar Galactica soundtrack, of all things...enjoy?

While traipsing around the South of France however many moons ago, Edge had meandered down a narrow path and right on into a store headed by a woman who looked as old as time itself.

It had been the type of place that made him look over his shoulder as he left it behind, halfway certain that the whole experience would prove to be a figment of his imagination and that he would see the old woman and her dusty products dissipating in the late afternoon sea breeze.

But the paper bag in his hand had told him there was still some truth to be found in his world, and upon glancing back he had discovered the store as it was, hidden away from the bustle of the town just as it always had been—presumably, Edge figured, since the days when Jesus Christ himself was still in nappies.

That night, he’d returned home with a horde of small treasures, a couple meant just for him, the rest to be handed out accordingly.

“For me?” Bono had asked at least three times whilst ruffling through the goods, to which Edge had, of course, answered, “For you,” the only reply there could ever be on such a night. It had been just the two of them that time, a trip that had proven to be one for the ages.

The bottle of wine had been appraised, accepted and poured, the cheese enduring similar scrutiny. Edge couldn’t quite remember what other items he’d bought that day, though the way that Bono eventually thanked him (starting, as often was the case, with that Mona Lisa smile, followed by a lingering kiss) still stuck in his mind however many moons later. Yet somehow, Edge could recall Bono carefully emptying that paper bag and regaling its contents with a curiosity that perked a single eyebrow skywards when he’d eventually glanced up.

“Well, this is almost as gorgeous as you, Edge.”

“Impossible,” Edge had shot back with the confidence of the man at his side, a smile bursting through as he’d added, “It’s also scientific, you know.”

“Oh, _do tell_.”

And Edge had. He’d explained precisely what a storm glass was and how it had been used throughout history, sounding as if he were reciting from a book, though he’d remained empty-handed. No, he’d simply done his research over the years, fascinated by the process, the chemical element that made it all possible.

Small dots signalled humidity, clear liquid within meant a perfect day, crystals down below spoke of frost, a cloudy glass matched the clouds in the sky, add some little stars to the mix and you had yourself a thunderstorm, and so on and so forth.

Truthfully, Edge couldn’t quite recall the specifics of it all, and he’d likely been just as forgetful that night in Èze, but it didn’t matter now and it hadn’t then—Bono was forever captivated by whatever bullshit spewed from Edge’s mouth. And once the lesson ended, Bono had regarded the storm glass thoughtfully, noting the small dots within.

“It’s going to be a humid night,” he’d decided, a saucy grin emerging. “One might say steamy, even.”

The fact of the matter was that chemistry rarely lied. And Edge was a man of science, so how could he in good conscience have denied such a deduction, when the evidence had been right in front of him?

So with a bottle of wine drunk between them, a Mona Lisa smile and a kiss that’d refused to end until it did, Edge had stayed true to the prophecy by wrangling Bono upstairs and into the unmade bed where they had started off fast before slowing it all right on down.

It was true that they had fucked in so many beds in so many cities over the years that sometimes a selection of encounters blurred into one, while others had likely been lost forever, victims of Edge’s shoddy memory (and did he _really_ remember all those conversations word for word, or had he made himself into an unreliable narrator without even realizing? Who could say? Not Edge, that was for sure, because who could trust him? Again, not Edge).

But that night, he remembered: Bono on his back with a cigarette between his fingers, taking a leisurely drag here and there as Edge remained decidedly unhurried in his efforts.

They’d had the entire night, after all, and the week, the house, the bed and beyond. Everything. It had been theirs for the taking, just theirs. And surely in the sky above there had been a nebula begging to be brought closer to the world, close enough to grasp and pull in until they could contain a piece of the universe within the four walls of their bedroom, claimed for their eyes only.

“What are you thinking about?” Bono would sometimes ask when Edge fell silent and contemplative, causing him to answer with a line about sex or science or the scope of God’s reach, as a sliver of truth always seemed far less batshit than the realities that bounced around in his busy little mind.

_Don’t open the door to anyone_, Edge would be tempted to say if he had the ability to go back in time (and who knows? Maybe that same thought had already crossed his mind however many moons ago, causing him to bite his tongue before it slipped out into the world). _Don’t let them in, let’s just stay like this until we get bored of each other, okay?_

“I don’t see that ever happening,” Bono had said on another occasion, responding only to the latter part of what Edge really wanted to tell him in full every single time that they were alone together. “Bored? No. Not on this end, anyway. You’re fucking fascinating, you know that? _Bored_? Honestly, Edge . . .”

On that night in the South of France, after Bono had lazily skimmed his fingertips through the come on his skin and smiled up at Edge, and after they'd washed away the stickiness, the sweat caused by the summer heat outside and within, they had returned their naked selves downstairs to adorn the mantle in the sitting room with their latest shared fascination.

“There it is,” Bono had mused, looking fondly at the storm glass. “A prophet—”

“—of sorts.”

“Mmhmm. Only this prophet doesn’t have to chat with a burning bush to discover what’s on the cards.”

“No, it does not.”

“It’s got the easiest job of all. Sitting there on its arse and relying on the weather to whisper in its ear the shape of things to come. I hate that I envy it, you know. But I do. I _do_, Edge.”

“Are you drunk?”

“Not yet,” Bono had replied with a wink, issuing a challenge that Edge was incredibly happy to support on the type of days where no responsibilities were foreseeable in the near future (and sometimes on days when they had so many obligations that it was hard to know where to start, therefore alcohol was the only solution).

Since that night, the storm glass had shifted to various places within the house—the kitchen, the study, an _extremely_ brief stint poolside—yet it was always on show somewhere, blending in with the décor until the light caught it in such a way that it couldn’t possibly be ignored.

Now, it’d returned to its original spot on the mantle. Edge would like to pretend as though it appeared back there by magic, as if a spell had been cast upon the house and somehow, _somehow_ the clock could, in turn, be wound back twenty-five years to a time when they were both young and still untouched by all the physical hurts that life was destined to throw their way.

But in truth, it was Edge who had thought to put it back on the mantle, his reasoning being that he simply preferred it there, nothing more. Yet in considering the storm glass, he found it hard not to look back upon specific moments he wished he could leave in the past.

“Look to the future, Edge,” Bono had told him one night in Dublin, about two and a half years ago.

Edge remembered this now because it was always there lurking in the back of his mind, the memory of those terrible few days and weeks waiting for the perfect moment to reappear and keep him tossing and turning in bed, even now still so full of dread that he had to stop himself from picking up the phone and dialling. He remembered this now because on his last visit to Èze before that night, the storm glass had caught his eye.

Upon following his gaze, Bono had declared, “Storm’s a-comin’.” And it had. It _had_. “Better batten down the hatches, love.”

They’d barely made it into the new year. On that night in Dublin, huddled together next to the fire, Bono had been a furnace at his side. A body warmed by the elements and the blood coursing through his veins, off in a way that was new and terrifying, a way that Edge had tried so hard to downplay.

Yet at the end of the day, he’d reasoned at the time, what did it matter that Bono still wasn’t himself? At least he’d made it through. He’d been one of the lucky ones that year, given the chance to look so small in his hospital bed, so worn and unsure of it all. God willing, he’d make it to sixty and beyond.

There was no stopping him—he’d proven that time and time again. Left to his own devices, he could easily reach for the stars and almost touch them.

At the very least, he’d come closer than most.

“It’ll be alright,” Bono had said, then, now and always. “Life has a funny way of working out if you keep moving forward, you know.” But on that night in Dublin, he’d still been struggling to convince himself of so many things, notions and philosophies he’d held his entire life. And then they’d lapsed into silence, one that could only last so long. “What are you thinking about there, Edge?”

“Space,” Edge had answered, the television offering him a quick excuse. Had it been Star Wars? Trek? Did it matter? He remembered spotting a spaceship travelling through the vast expanse of darkness. And when he’d turned away from the screen he’d only just managed to see that faint smile before it disappeared, a smile that caused his chest to lurch and a grave thought to resurface: _I almost lost you_.

“Mmm,” had been Bono’s response as he’d regarded the television thoughtfully. One beat, two, more. A whole rhythm playing out within Edge’s mind. _I almost lost you_. He’d been so patient, waiting for the pulsing silence to end. But truthfully, he’d spent those terrible few days and weeks only a hair’s breadth away from having a fucking meltdown. “It’s incredible, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“Space, Edge,” Bono had replied patiently. “I remember when I was a boy, my old man would sneer at the very idea of hopping into a shuttle and heading out into the Milky Way. There couldn’t possibly be anything better than Earth out there was his reasoning, so why risk your life journeying into the unknown? Of course, you couldn’t tear him away from the television during the moon landing. A walking contradiction, that was Bob. But I was fascinated by the thought of it. I imagine you’re shocked to hear we had differing opinions even when I was small.”

“Utterly. I always thought you two _never_ clashed.”

“I truly apologize for turning your world upside down,” Bono had said, hand on his heart, a smile finally appearing in full, one that turned wistful fast. “I remember when we were just starting out with the band, he told me that we were reaching for the stars, saying it in that way that he had, like it was a bad thing. And he was right, in part, wasn’t he? That’s exactly what we were doing. Ambition, Edge. You’d think it was a sin, the way some people approach those that have it. But it’s always done us a world of good, hasn’t it?”

“It still does.”

“It still does,” Bono had echoed. It had moved him, the inclusion of their present, their potential future in the conversation. His smile had told Edge as much, his shifting body adding weight to the argument. What was personal space? Bono had never been familiar with the concept, and that was just fine with Edge, then, now and always. A furnace at his side. _I almost lost you_.

“I don’t know, Edge. I’ve no clue, to this day, what went through my father’s mind at any given moment. Perhaps it was resentment that he’d never had the chance to do the things that pissed him off so much. Or maybe he really didn’t see any point in climbing into a rocket and blasting off, or sitting out on the lawn at night and wondering _what if?_ while watching the stars.” Bono had paused then, a moment of reflection that drew him lightyears away. “People liked to say we were more like each other than we realized, and maybe there’s some truth in that, but I know this, Edge: when I was a boy, and my old man was sneering about rockets and such, I would ignore him and go outside. Ambition isn’t the word I would have used back then, though it was applicable. I was just happy to look up and dream.”

“You still do.”

“I still do,” Bono had mused, before shaking his head. “Sorry. I don’t . . . He’s been on my mind these past few weeks, you know? Would be nice to still have him here sometimes. It would have been nice to . . .” Another shake of his head had ushered in a sudden silence, one that draped over them like a weighted blanket—soothing, suffocating.

Deep down, Edge figured, people simply wanted to be comforted by those who had held them close when they were small enough to pick up and gently cradle, close enough to breathe in a familiar scent, the steady heartbeat that signalled _home_. He’d read a piece in some magazine once that mentioned soldiers using their dying breaths to call out to their mothers, a fact that made perfect sense to him, morbid as it was.

It never leaves, that need for mum or dad to come and make everything alright again. Edge knew this from personal experience, and during those terrible weeks and days, all he’d wanted to do was dial a phone number that had been disconnected.

Comfort. It was Edge’s aim—for Bono, certainly, but also himself. And he would do anything to ensure it.

Already he’d been one of four traipsing into the desert in search of answers, but he would follow Bono to the stars if he could, or fall into place like always on their journey into the future, or simply stay by his side on stage, or a shared couch, or wherever their bodies dared to fall. The chance to do so had very nearly been taken away from Edge, after all, and he refused to let that happen again.

Comfort. These days, it felt like he needed it more than Bono. And while he knew that everything was fine, that it has been for a while now and in theory they’d all moved on, every now and then a reminder would come along to stop him in his tracks. A skipped heartbeat, the gnawing need to be enveloped by Bono’s entire being—Edge had experienced it all far too much.

This time, the storm glass was to blame, but he couldn’t be mad at it, not when he was the one to purposely seek it out. 

Yet with anticipation also came reassurance, he often found. It was his favourite time of year, for one thing, when the nights were warm and lazy, the stars refused to be contained in the night sky and he could reach out a hand in the gentler moments and know the fingers that curled around his, the same fingers that had made him first realise in full what love could feel like. And perhaps Edge had gotten softer with age, but so what? He didn’t care. About anything really, except what truly mattered to him, and what he would do to hold on to them all for as long as he possibly could.

The countdown was on. In a couple of days, the house would be bursting with life, but for now the only thing that could temper Edge’s restless mood was the storm glass. And thankfully, despite frequent surveillance, the clear liquid within refused to cloud—a sure sign of the shape of things to come.


End file.
